


SHUFFLE

by uraniumempire



Category: Monster Prom (Visual Novel)
Genre: Fingerfucking, Fluff and Angst, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Premature Ejaculation, Studying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-08 20:46:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18902344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uraniumempire/pseuds/uraniumempire
Summary: I ran a random number generator, and used it to write a series of lemons for each pairing in Monster Prom (w/ DLC). This is primarily a writing exercise.





	SHUFFLE

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so happy - red vox

Oz felt things for Calculester. Oz felt that he felt a _lot_ of things for Calculester. Oz felt that he knew that Calculester felt things for him, in the weird way artificial intelligence quantified “feeling”, and he felt that must’ve counted for feeling feelings. Oz felt a lot of things on account of being a creature that felt the feeling of fear on others, filling himself on feeling, and he felt that should have extended to Calculester.

 

Oz could not feel Calculester feeling what Oz felt Calculester felt for Oz.

 

It was a point of contention, and a frustratingly specific one. As a bogeyman, Oz never _needed_ to learn the intricacies of feeling; to him, it was the difference between red and blue, yellow and green. There was no more nuance to feeling than any other sense, and quantification was as simple as the nanometer difference in the spiritual radiation’s wavelength. Saying the right thing was a matter of tuning.

 

That was fine and all, but Oz predated the advent of decision engines like Calculester.

 

Computers, as Oz understood them, could be boiled down to a list of logic statements that translated abstracts into bits and back. Tricks of conceptuality, a circuit of silicon rather than a brain of carbon… or _was_ it a brain, without a soul? Oz wasn’t sure, and his career path didn’t require him to understand how something was, only where it was and how to get it.

 

The details were irrelevant. It all boiled into the flat nothing Oz felt emanating from Calculester, a void for his own feelings to bounce around.

 

It wasn’t for lack of trying; ever since their study sessions transitioned from studying hostile architecture to studying the intricacies of Calculester’s form, the soft buzz that followed his gentle words, the canned laughter that made every joke feel just a little funnier, the rhythmic pulse of his bellows that told him things would be alright in the end, Oz was smitten, corvids in the stomach, shadowstuff over shadowstuff, et cetera et cetera. It was hardly a new development: Oz fell into lust far too easily, a vice befitting a monster who fed on feeling and being felt. But there had always been a reciprocation, a compass to guide him to the pleasantry and passion, and Oz made up for its absence with a vacillating entourage of his own emotions.

 

Like an absolute buffoon, Oz had chased these feelings, and like all absolute buffoons who live too long, his chase had inexplicably payed off. Oz chalked it down to commonality of purpose: Calculester wished to feel alive, and Oz wished to feel Calculester. Propping the overlap upon intimate late-night gardening, thinly-veiled “jokes”, and cautioned displays of vulnerability were enough to get closer, enough that both of them were comfortable taking it further than friendship.

 

Still, Oz felt nothing, and that soiled the everything else that he felt. Were his touches too restrained or too clingy? Oz wasn’t sure. Cal never objected, often initiated, but there was no ripple with the motions. His feelings, if Calculester felt feelings (and he must have!), were locked tightly in a web of circuits too fine to parse.

 

Oz knew he could have just asked. If the honeyed words were genuine, or if Calculester was just going through the motions in his Chinese Room. The words nearly left his lips on a few nights, as Calculester powered down beside him, yet he always stopped short. Why ruin a good thing? Even as it tore through Oz’s head like a rabid wolverine, he had to admit: this was a good thing… right?

 

Oz felt these things, and continued to feel these things through mid-afternoon on March 16th.

 

Today was Oz’s birthday. Well, technically it _wasn’t_ , but it was the first day that popped into his head the first time he’d been asked. More often than not, he had to be reminded of that fact, which… cool? He’d lost track of the days before humans made the first zodiac.

 

The day passed without much fanfare. Brian had gotten him a card. Miranda had gotten him some merfolk chocolate. Vera had given him a discount on his protection payments in an unexpected act of graciousness. Boring things befitting a boring mark on the calendar.

 

As usual, his study session was at 4:30, an hour after his last class for the day let out, at the housing Spooky High provided for all the horrors it spawned through compounded negligence. Oz was past the point of apprehension; the alcohol fire in his heart was compartmentalized and stuck far enough away that he could mask the burn with the scent of hot silicon. The motions were like clockwork: come in, pretend like he could focus on his studies long enough to forget about his insecurities, put as much as he could through the input, and vainly hope for an output. In the process, six of his seven senses would let him forget about the last one.

 

Calculester was already at the door to greet him. Today, he was wearing the bomber jacket Brian had lent him, a reminder to Oz of past and present tangles. Exactly what he didn’t need.

 

“Greetings, friend Oz. I have prepared some-oh!” Oz always waited until the door was closed behind him to initiate PDA. Chalk it down to the paranoiac residue of a thousand feedings past. To his credit, Calculester hugged him back, even if Oz couldn’t feel it. “As I was saying, I have prepared some tea.”

 

Oz pried himself off of Calculester with the grace of a drunken slime mold. “Thanks, man.” Had he lingered too long? Guh. As if he needed any more uncertainty.

 

A mass of textbooks, blueprints, loose-leaf packets, and everything and anything were dumped on there usual spot on the nearby coffee table, followed swiftly by a cup of a coaster, _then_ the cup of tea. Calculester and Oz pulled up some throw pillows to sit on, and it was off to bottle up Oz’s feelings for as long as monstrously possible.

 

The silence was deafening, placated only by humming of fans and the shifting of paper. Oz was used to the silence, had been used to it since the night the first sapient birthed Oz with its fearful weeping, and was used to its employ in the background music of his life, but right now it only accentuated the nothing that emanated off Calculester. It was almost a relief when Cal leaned onto him, silence replaced with the ticking and whirring of machinery.

 

Oh, he’d read this page already. Again.

 

For someone who needed to be waterproofed, Calculester made some good tea. Today’s was a mint brew, good for steeling Oz’s nerves and helping him forget about his myriad of passions. Healthier than many other drinks, and less distracting than playing around in Calculester’s circuitry. Whatever his robotic companion had been doing with it was yet another question he didn’t need to be asking himself.

 

He’d have to sharpen that pencil soon. He’d have to break the embrace to get to it.

 

Candelabra here, spikes there. Three bats for an attic that big. God, Cal was warm. Without enough of a cannibalism taboo, inducing a Wendigo transformation would be just a little harder. Certain golems counted for humans in certain rites. They were so close, Oz could feel each breath of his bellows. Certain bone banners would induce a fear response without the need for magic. Digging one was… was…

 

Oh _fuck it_.

 

In hindsight, he’d have done better to schedule these with someone he wasn’t absolutely smitten with, but Oz did what he always did when he got to the point, several hours in, that studying just wasn’t viable: he wrapped an arm around his companion, and played a sad game of cockatrice with his own libido. Oz then pretended he was still reading his textbook, while inside his head a perfect storm of emotional insecurity and all-consuming horniness raged like a maenad who’d just discovered PCP. Calculester leaned into it and still Oz felt nothing, nothing positive or negative, just running fans and hot plastics. And…

 

Oz suddenly collapsed onto Cal, mouth formed and leaving soft love bites along the wires of Cal’s neck. The soft buzz of Cal’s moans did little to sate Oz, whose one hand moved to slip him out of his jacket as the other stroked the bellows on his chest. It was a vicious cycle, a fire that grew hotter with each gasp and attempted to quench itself through touch, but thinking it through was for when Oz had spent himself, and right now he hadn’t even gotten out of his own clothes.

 

The shadowstuff droplets were already in the process of undressing Oz, but it wasn’t his main concern. His main concern was the shape of Cal, how he vibrated with every touch and buzzed with every kiss, his warm chassis and his icy fingertips, how he radiated nothing and how fucking wild that drove Oz.

 

Oz let up to see the green of Cal’s terminal tinted a bright pink, text a keysmash, and continued.

 

Moving lower, Oz’s tongue dragged across the grooves of Cal’s frame, earning a soft “Oz…” from his companion that nearly made him melt. Uncharacteristic, but computers weren’t characterized by their fuckability in the first place. Chalk it up to _fuck_ , now Cal gently ruffled Oz’s hair and he _really_ melted, naked torso grinding against legs that jittered with each stroke of the tongue.

 

One of Oz’s hands found its way to the smooth shadowstuff of his crotch, frantically digging out a hole for Oz to finger himself. He should be going slower he knew but _fuck_ , Cal made too many hot noises and squirmed just the right way and emanated a big fat zero of feeling and Oz had to fill it with something, anything, like his fingers or the taste of Cal’s central processing unit.

 

More to exhale excess oxygen than anything else did Oz lift himself off Cal. To his credit, Cal was quick on the get-up, a minor detail that Oz attempted to suppress the implications of with a frenzied probe of his front hole.

 

Oz collapsed onto a nearby couch. “I’m gonna fail the exam.”

 

“I would hope not.” Fuck, why did he have to be so hot? Oz’s bodily integrity loosened with every word out of his speakers, and that was before he’d become a naked mess on Cal’s sofa. “Your grasp of the material has improved by 11 marks since the beginning of our sessions.”

 

Oz pulled his hole inside out, and started jerking the resulting cock. “Know what needs eleven marks? M-my…” His joke was lost in a whimper. A fucking wimper, how stereotypical. He didn’t even have a mouth right now!

 

Cal sure took his sweet fucking time coming over to the couch, and he most likely knew it. Looking Oz over like he was enjoying it… was he? Now wasn’t the time to think. Now was the time to fuck, and Cal was taking _too long_ to fuck him, dammit. “You look like you’re enjoying yourself, friend Oz.” Oh he _thought_?!

 

“I g-guess, yeah.” Oz slowed his strokes, more out of investment than any sort of dampening of feeling, especially not as Cal climbed over him. “... you gonna f-fuck me?”

 

“Perhaps.” Cal pretended he wasn’t looming over Oz like a sexy… cloud. It didn’t matter. Oz could make all the failed similes he wanted while Cal applied lubricant to his fingers and ground his leg against Oz’s crotch. “Is that what you want?”

 

Yes, yes, please god yes. If Oz still had a lip he’d be biting it. “Y-yeah.”

 

Of course he moaned the moment Cal’s fingers began working their magic, did Oz’s internal narrative even have to ask?

 

It was Cal’s turn to dig a hole into Oz, probing his insides like he wanted to be taken to Oz’s leader, which was currently Cal, might as well have been. Between the finger curling inside of him, Cal’s free hand digging into his back like daggers, and the soft glare of his lover’s gaze, Oz was content to let figures of speech die a little death.

 

Oz picked up his own pace, and Cal followed suit. For a brief, beautiful moment in time, everything began blending together, every touch and sound and sight and feeling coalescing into a prefect fucking whirl of pleasure directed by Cal.

 

With one last wimper, Oz shot his seed all over himself and the sofa.

 

… fuck, already?

 

Oz might’ve been more miffed if he hadn’t just nutted his brains out. Just a little more time riding the high would’ve been nice, especially if Cal hadn’t yet cum. Especially… fuck, Oz was tired. He could deal with everything else later.

 

Calculester’s chassis was still warm as he cuddled up to Oz, gently stroking his hair with his clean hand. As soon as Oz stopped feeling like hot, bubbly resin, he’d probably return the favor. For now, Cal was warm and the afterglow masked most everything else Oz loved worrying about.

 

“Sorry, uh… sorry for being so quick.” Cal’s circuits were still hot to the touch. “Weird day.” Oz knew he should say something, knew his emotional Maxwellian Demon couldn’t hold onto the warmth forever, that even the _question_ answered itself with growing dread; alas, gently fidgeting with an FWB’s body always struck Oz as more appealing than any sort of vulnerability. “You, uh… hrm.”

 

Cal chuckled, and Oz suddenly remembered that he couldn’t feel anything, and it ripped through his gut, a hot knife through whatever house of cards Oz had propped upon a beast with two backs. “Do not worry about that right now. Seeing you satisfied is enough. Happy birthday, by the way.”

 

“Thanks.” _Oz you useless bisexual. Say something!_ “I…” He was so close. But then, Oz’d been close for dozens of nights, none of which contained a confession.

 

Oz wept instead.

**Author's Note:**

> The generator produced numbers for four columns (representing the 4 PCs), in a range of 1 to 8. I'm going with each column before moving down a row, skipping repeats. Calculester is represented by an 8. I decided early on to theme these after pretentious songs I like. Tags are added as they appear.


End file.
